Chapter 14
Simon
I make tea. I have no idea why. Because Boris tells me to? I drink tea if I have a sore throat, but rarely otherwise.
He's watching my every move. "When do you need to pick Ira up?"
"Fuck, I need to call the school and cancel the after-school curriculum.
" I fumble with my phone. Hopefully, they won't charge me for this week if I can get hold of them now before he starts for the day.
I have some vague memory of the guidelines saying there is a fifteen-day notice period, but it's worth a try.
I walk into the living room to make the call, leaving Boris in the kitchen.
The woman I speak to isn't unkind in any way; she sounds sympathetic when I tell her about having lost my job, but, sadly, I was right about those fifteen days.
She informs me Ira is allowed to participate during the notice period, but I decline.
I know he'd prefer to come home when the school ends for the day.
When I enter the kitchen, Boris is chopping an onion.
"What are you doing?"
"Preparing food. Will Ira want a snack when he comes home?"
I stare, and when I don't reply, he drops the knife and walks toward me. My heart leaps to my throat. There is something predatory about the way he moves. I take a small step back, which has him raising an eyebrow, but he neither slows down nor speeds up.
"Eh...Boris?" I don't know why my voice shakes.
"Yes?" He reaches out and grabs my arm. The next second, he has me in his arms, and I find it hard to breathe.
"Come on, honey. Have some tea, relax for a bit. I'll take care of you." He nuzzles me before guiding me onto a chair. I don't know why I let him, but I do.
Once I'm seated, he places his hands on my shoulders and kneads my sore muscles. I groan. He says nothing and keeps massaging me. I want to melt into a puddle, want to hand myself over to his care, but...Jesus, I'm eleven years older than he is. He shouldn't need to take care of me.
"Ira? Will he want a snack when he gets home?"
I nod.
"Like a sandwich, or what do you normally make him?"
I moan as he finds a sore muscle reaching in under my shoulder blade. "He...eh...normally eats at school. Sandwiches."
He hums. "So I'll bake some bread."
My head flies up. "Bake?"
"You don't have any bread, or have you hidden it away somewhere strange?"
Fuck. I always shop on Tuesdays, but maybe I should run to the store now. "I can go shopping."
"No. You're to relax. I'll bake."
"Boris, you can't--" He kisses my neck, making goosebumps spread over my arms.
"I can, and I will. It's much better for him than the store-bought crap anyway."
"Chicken fajitas for dinner." He motions at a pack of chicken breasts he's plucked from the freezer. "And bread for the afternoon snack."
"I...eh...don't have any tortillas."
He raises that annoying eyebrow again. "I said I'll bake."
"Boris--"
"Hush now and let me do my thing. Do you want to take a nap? I can get Ira if you want."
I shake my head. "You're not listed as one of the people who are allowed to get him."
He purses his lips. "You should list me."
"I can't list you. I don't know you."
He huffs as if I'm being unreasonable. "You should list me. What if something happens to you? Who'll pick him up then?"
I do my best to ignore the cold slithering through me. So far, we've managed, but it's always been a fear of mine to not be able to get there in time to pick Ira up. "I...eh..."
"Exactly. Drink your tea and relax. I've got you. You don't have to worry about a thing."
I wish he were right, but the mountain of worries is too big, looming too high, and I know the avalanche has begun its journey downward. Soon, I'll be buried.
Boris squeezes my shoulder. "Tea. Now."
I drink some tea. It warms my chest as I swallow.
Soon, the chop-chop-chop of the knife fills the kitchen. Boris puts everything he's chopped into a bowl of water, then he raids my pantry until he finds yeast. I watch in fascination as he measures ingredients and mixes them. Shortly after, there is a dough resting underneath a towel.
"Are you a chef? Baker?"
"Not formally trained, but I've worked in kitchens most of my adult life."
"But not now."
"Nah, I didn't feel like working when I first moved here."
I stare. Is he rich? He doesn't look rich. Or what does rich look like? I'm sure not all rich people walk around in Armani suits all day. "You didn't feel like working?"
He grins at me, and it's so carefree it makes my heart ache.
"Nope, didn't feel like it."
"What about money?"
He waves a hand. "I have enough to cover the basics, nothing outlandish, and buying the house wiped out my savings, but I get by."
Buying a house wiped out his savings, but not enough for him to have to get a job? "Are you looking for work in the local restaurants?"
He grimaces. "I haven't yet. I was thinking about it maybe being time the other day, but I think I'm gonna take care of you and Ira instead."
I splutter but can't come up with anything to say.
He raises one shoulder before dropping it again. "I have the monthly payment from the pack. I get by."
"The pack?" My mind jumps to the people in the cafe and to the photos of the wolves. I try not to tense, but I fail.
"My family, I mean. We all get a monthly allowance or whatever you should call it."
"Your family is rich." That has to be it. They have millions in the bank and give everyone a monthly payment, most likely keeping it at a low percentage, so the wealth keeps growing. Compound interest.
"Yeah, not the having-palaces-with-gold-plating kind of rich, but enough to get by." He smiles at me. "I'll take care of you."
"Boris, I can't let you take care of me. I'm a grown man, older than you, and I refuse to be indebted to you." I will never put myself in a situation where someone has power over me ever again. I have Ira, and I swore to Irene to keep him safe.
Boris snorts. "Age has nothing to do with it, and what's mine is yours. One day, you'll understand how my life is worth nothing without you, and money doesn't mean shit."
Easy to say when you don't have to worry about how to keep a roof over your head. I deliberately ignore everything else he said.
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